sick of not remembering what’s important.

i match each martian melody like a fine-tuned instrument — 

but i always cut it a little too sharp.

***

sardonic spontaneity and stationary sanctuary 

seep in some sapphic, sapphire flame — 

seductive and godless. 

broken hinges make way 

for no end of eyes prying over shoulders 

and lips licked in anticipation. 

***

i have belonged fully to myself 

only in the emptiest of moments, 

adoring the concept of someone so much like you

but somehow not you at all.

yet there is something undiscovered about it —

a glaucomal glint in the green eye

of a famished fox;

[i still see them in the woods 

when i feel most alone.]

the grim-scale trace of mistakes 

purpling all over my neck.

***

+~*+~*check my other files, love+~*+~*

vehemently, i position myself on the side of love,

spitting in the face of how-it-usually-turns-out,

letting go of a hope that was no longer keeping me 

from falling.

***

there are two sides to you:

one is perpetually in shadow,

smoldering and sweating through the bedsheets.

and one floats above,

bouncing a holy, hedonic light into frame.

***

she is sordid, 

constricted in a cushioned shell of

honeysuckle and jasmine, all

pollen-drunk and 

un-sanctified.

***

i want to call on you as a mother:

nurturing, de-curing sensitivity to a singular distaste  —

or any one likeness of it —

benevolent and full-cheeked,

stooping and coddling my flesh as if my heart

was the only thing left smoldering.

and i want to call on you as a mistress,

rolling, shifting, regressing, extending —

tending to separate limbs on a naughty, nestling whim,

draped oh-so casually around my waist…

\yes, you and your familiar floorboards,

singing to me all shy-like, splintering and shaking me loose like a cable-knot.

in my dreams i come to you in lace 

and my eyes roll back into my head.

from between my thighs spills 

a honey so thick and amber like the sun,

inside a pollen so potent it would drive the most practical of proletariates

mad with desire.

my tongue drips a sweet spit,

sighing down to a reservoir of holy water

just beyond the arch of a spine.

the tepid ooze is tainted finally 

with a drop of my vitality — 

falling into her like you used to fear you would

some animal’s den;

falling till the pellucid pool

has but a pinkish hue.